Topping From Below (45 page)

I drop the belt. M. coughs, gasps for air. His lungs make long, wheezing noises as he sucks in the oxygen.

“Are you going to talk now?” I ask, and he nods, gasping, still unable to speak. I get off his chest and stand back. He coughs, clears his throat, then breathes desperately in big gulps, his neck muscles contracting in spasms. He doesn’t look so smug now. I give him several minutes to recover, then go over to the camcorder and stop it from recording. I rewind the cassette, and begin again—no need to have that scene on film. I turn around to face M. He’s lying still now, and he eyes me with an intense hatred I’ve never before seen him display.

He says, “Okay, I’ll tell you what happened. But it won’t do you any good. You can’t see me in the first video, and this one won’t help, either. It was made under duress. Besides, videotapes aren’t admissible in court.”

I don’t say anything. I have no idea if they’re admissible or not, but when Joe sees his confession, he’ll make sure M. goes to jail. “Start talking,” I say.

M. hesitates. He purses his lips petulantly, then says, “Undo my legs first.”

“No.”

“They’re beginning to cramp. If you want a confession, undo my legs.”

I think this over. I’m not inclined to bargain with him—and his comfort is of no concern to me—but I’m close, so close, to learning how Franny died, that I consider his request. I feel my impatience as if it were a tormenting itch, demanding relief. I can’t wait a minute longer. I need the truth. I look down at M. With his arms shackled, there’s no way he can come after me. I untie his legs, standing back in case he decides to kick.

“Okay,” I say. “Now start talking.”

“I’ll talk. But we’re going to do it my way. I need to explain a few things before I tell you about Franny.”

“I’m not interested in anything else.”

“Too bad. You’re going to hear it.”

I cross my arms. M. senses my impatience, and once again, he is yanking my chain. I feel the manipulation, cold and hard, as surely as if stainless-steel links were connected from my neck to his hand. I want to know how he killed Franny, everything about it. He knows this, but his concatenating hold over me is gone. I’ll listen to his explanations, but that won’t change the outcome. I’ll get his confession. He’s going to prison.

“This isn’t the ending I had planned for us,” he says. He looks smug, confident, his face a blank wall of indifference, as if we’d never been lovers.

“Start talking,” I say.

His brows knit into a small frown. He appears momentarily distracted, as if he’s having trouble deciding where to start.

“First,” M. begins, “I want to tell you about Ian.”

At the mention of Ian’s name, I feel a terrible pang of remorse for what I’ve put him through. I recognize the immensity of my error. I wait, impatient, to hear what he’ll say about Ian.

“Yes,” M. says, his voice taunting. “I want you to know that Ian—whom you always claimed to be so noble and good; your loyal, caring lan—he cheated on you.”

I mull this over, then discount it. I would’ve known if Ian had been sleeping with someone else; I would’ve sensed it. “You’re lying, and even if he did, he wouldn’t tell you.”

He gazes at me, unperturbed. “Wouldn’t he? Weren’t he and I confidants? He told me everything else, why wouldn’t he tell me this?”

I don’t reply.

“Well, you’re right,” he says. “He didn’t tell me—he didn’t have to. You see, I’m the one with whom he cheated. Your sweet Ian had his first taste of cock.”

“You’re lying.”

“Nora, Nora, Nora.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue, mocking me. “When will you ever learn? You know I always tell the truth.” He smiles. “Well, almost always. You can understand why I didn’t tell you I killed Franny. But everything else I told you was true.”

I still don’t say anything.

“I can see I’ll have to convince you. Very well.” He stretches his legs. He looks at me and says, “Ian occasionally came back here after we played racquetball—for a drink, sometimes for dinner, whatever. I was such a sympathetic ear, and you weren’t giving him any attention. He couldn’t understand why you were turning away from him. He couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to make love anymore. Poor Ian. He was in such a state of confusion. The last time he was here—this was several days before he broke up with you—I gave him a scotch and let him pour his heart out to me. Such a touching scene.” M. says this sarcastically, his voice dripping false sympathy. “I made him another drink and told him you didn’t deserve him. He said he wished he could talk to you the way he talked to me.” M. looks up at his handcuffed wrists, then gazes back at me.

“Well, you can guess the rest. One thing led to another. I told him I felt really close to him, that I loved him like a brother. He said he felt the same. A little kiss, a little caress—he was easy. He hesitated when I put my hand on his cock, but he got so hard that it wasn’t difficult to convince him to let me suck it. A few drinks loosened him right up, Nora. That, plus he hadn’t been fucking you for a while. He was so horny I suppose one could say you led Ian right into my lap. I kept him the entire night. And I kept him boozed up so he would be most compliant. I made him suck me, and I gave it to him in the ass. Your Ian isn’t the sweet virgin he once was.”

Still, I say nothing. I know he’s telling the truth.

“The poor boy was terribly confused. The next morning he left before I woke. Bad manners, if you want my opinion—he didn’t even kiss me good-bye. He called the next day. Told me it was a big mistake. He apologized, said he was sorry it happened and that he couldn’t return my affections. What a laugh! The idiot didn’t even know he was purposefully seduced.” M. chuckles contemptuously. “He was anguishing because he thought he had hurt my feelings and led me on.”

Finally I find my voice. I know he is telling the truth, but I’m having a difficult time accepting it. I don’t know why. He killed Franny—his cold seduction of Ian shouldn’t surprise me at all. “Why?” I say. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t want you to see him anymore. You were continually telling me what a wonderful man he was. Well—there’s your honest, noble Ian, Nora. He broke up with you rather than tell you the truth. Just as I knew he would.”

But he didn’t break up with me, I think. I assumed he had, but he only wanted time to be alone for a while, time to think about what had happened between him and M. “There was no reason for that,” I say. “Ian and I were growing apart because of you. It was only a matter of time before we split up. You didn’t have to fuck him. There was no need to.”

I feel tears in my eyes—for Ian, for myself, but mostly for Franny. “There was no need,” I repeat. “No need at all,” but I realize need had nothing to do with it. He did it out of spite, meanness. And that’s why he’s telling me about Ian now. He’s a vindictive man, wanting to hurt me as much as possible. I’m not able to undo the damage he’s caused Ian, but I will avenge Franny. He thinks I can’t hold him accountable for her death, but he is wrong. Dead wrong.

“But there was a need,” he says. “I had to fuck him.” He tilts his head, gloating at his victory, then says, “I left out a small detail: I put a sleeping pill in Ian’s drink. You see, I had a few things to accomplish that evening. I needed Ian unconscious for a short while, just long enough to put his fingerprints on a few objects and borrow his house key and make a quick trip to Sacramento.” He smiles. “You are so easy to manipulate, Nora. As easy as Franny. As easy as Ian. You searched his condo, just as I knew you would.”

I feel an ache in my heart. I’ve caused Ian so much trouble, suspecting him of murder, sharing my suspicions with the police, leading them to evidence that precipitated his arrest. And even after I went to the police, Ian still said he loved me. His loyalty and trust run much deeper than mine. I know I was foolish to let him slip away, and I fear I will regret this always.

M. smiles that arrogant smile of his. I wait for him to continue.

“Are you sure you want to hear the rest?” he finally asks me. “I can tell you what happened with Franny, but what good will it do you? My confession won’t be admissible in court. You’ll just get angry, frustrated, unable to do anything with the knowledge I give you.” He raises his head and says, “Wouldn’t ignorance be the better alternative?”

The false concern in his voice is unmistakable. “No.”

“Good,” he says, laying his head back on the pillow. I see an expression of satisfaction cover his face, as if he wanted to tell me all along, as if he was calling the shots. From the conversation, one would deduce our positions were reversed—me in shackles, he a free man—but I know, given a choice, M. would not be forthcoming with a confession.

“Very good,” he says. “I was hoping that would be your answer. You see, I want to tell you what happened. I need to tell someone—just as you needed to speak of your abortion and sterilization. You can understand that, can’t you? Of course you can. I was your confessor; now you can be mine. By listening, you will do me the favor of relieving my guilt.”

His eyebrows rise. “Ah,” he says, “I can see by your expression that you don’t believe me capable of guilt. I feel no remorse for my behavior with Franny—that much is true—but I do regret her death. It was an unfortunate incident.”

I cringe at his phrase for Franny’s murder: an unfortunate incident. “If you think you’ll find forgiveness in me, you’re mistaken,” I say.

“Not
find
forgiveness, Nora. I shall
take
it from you. Admitting your sin is the first step toward absolution. You know that. And who should take my confession but you? A bit ironic, isn’t it? I give you the truth you seek, and you, inadvertently, give me peace of mind.” He smirks.

“Remember when I told you Franny refused me nothing? That wasn’t true. There were several things she denied me, some of them dangerous. I respected her more for saying no—although I never told her that. In fact, I made her pay dearly for her intransigence. She got quite a whipping for her refusals.

“But after I broke up with her, she said she’d allow me to do anything. I think she had it in her mind that I was the only man who would ever love her. She wouldn’t let go of me. Her diary ended two weeks before she died, so you have no idea what she was like after that. She called me every day, sometimes five or six times, making a real nuisance of herself. God, she was tenacious. I tried to be kind, but nothing I said deterred her. She would come over uninvited, at all times of the day, and beg me to give her another chance, plead with me to love her. It was too much. Finally, I thought that if I took her to the edge, if I forced her to do those few things she had refused me, she would come to her senses and see we were incompatible. She would realize I was the wrong man for her.

“I packed a black duffel bag and went over to her apartment. It was the first time I’d been there; she always came to my house. I told her to take off her clothes and lie on the floor. Then I took duct tape out of my bag.”

He gazes thoughtfully at the ceiling. After a few seconds, he continues, his voice lower. “Duct tape—it’s not a material one would ordinarily bind a person with. It’s very painful when you rip it off, but I wanted to teach her a lesson. I stretched her arms above her head and bound her wrists, then wound the tape around the leg of the couch. Next I taped her ankles together. I got a scalpel out of the bag and laid it lengthwise on her midriff. I told her I was going to cut her on her stomach. I’d done it once before, on her ass, as you saw from the video. After that, she never let me cut her again. She was frightened of the knife.

“Anyway, I thought placing the scalpel on her body would be enough, just the sight of the knife, but it wasn’t. ‘Do it, Michael,’ she said. Then you’ll know how much I love you.’ Beads of sweat were forming on her forehead. She was scared, but wasn’t going to back down, not if she thought it would make me love her. I put duct tape over her mouth and began cutting her. First, a diamond shape around her navel. I could hear her moans through the tape. I tore it off and asked her if she’d had enough. She shook her head, told me she’d do anything if I’d stay with her, so I replaced the tape and began cutting again. Different shapes, circles, squares, stars, lines up and down her body, and yes, a circle with a slash through it. Tears covered her face; her screams came out as pathetic muffles. Still, she wouldn’t give in. Twice, I removed the tape to see if she wanted me to stop. Both times, she said, ‘I love you. I’ll never let you go.’ It was infuriating. Who would have thought Franny, timid Franny, would’ve turned out to be so obstinate? And so desperate.”

M. pauses. I think of what he told me so long ago.
Curiosity didn’t kill the cat—obstinacy did. Something Franny never learned.
He turns his head and rubs his forehead on his outstretched arm. His eyes are blank, and I can tell he is thinking of that day, seeing Franny before him. My stomach tightens, and I realize my hands are clenched into fists, my knuckles white. I see Franny also, and it’s all I can do to stand here and listen.

“Anyway, there was a lot of blood, but the cuts weren’t deep—and she still refused to ask me to stop. Finally, I got a shock box out of my duffel bag; it’s a hand crank generator I’d ordered through the mail. She’d seen the box before and heard me talk about it. Electrotorture. I had wanted to use it on Franny months earlier, but she was afraid of electricity, more than the cutting, and never allowed me to. She was very adamant about it. So that day I thought even if the cutting hadn’t scared her off, the electricity would. I ripped off the duct tape one more time. She was crying, almost hysterical, tears dripping down her wet cheeks. I waited for her to calm down, then said, ‘This is how it would be from now on, Franny. I’d do whatever I wished, without your consent. Haven’t you had enough? Can’t you see I’m not the man for you?’ She’d stopped crying, but her chest was still heaving, and I thought she was going to relent. Then she took a deep breath, and I saw it in her eyes—the stubbornness. On some deep, subconscious level, I think she wanted me to hurt her. I think she felt she deserved the pain—probably still trying to make amends for Billy. ‘I’ll do anything,’ she whispered, her voice hoarse from her silent screams. ‘Anything. I need you.’ Her compliance maddened me. I just wanted her out of my life. I put the tape back over her mouth. Then I wired up her nipples, put an electrode on each, and ran a current through her.”